Tuesday, March 23, 2010

suckerpunch II

My emotional shin is thin and I'll never show you anything. My paranoid hallucinations were right about everything. "Appeasement" is too strong of a word, and "pity" might be used too much as an excuse for actions. No one really cares how many people live inside of you, as long as all of them give in to sly demands.

I wish all the people here would take someone home with them tonight, and color naked with them. Or go battle someone, anyone but me--I'm still patiently waiting.

I see all the things I think of, and at times I just want to hug the night with my invisible arms and wait for it to spit me back out until I'm the last one left.

How am I supposed to concentrate on that which is not free form? The absolution of form gives us 1950. Some might say that joy comes in the form of nothing attainable and the LMNOP of oxygen intake caused Alexander the Great respiratory problems. Of course, I couldn't care less about those claiming to be prophetic.

(taken from Love Is A Ghost Thing. Published by Publish America.)

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